


It Ends Tonight

by jack merridontme (luckystrike)



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Gen, M/M, animal cruelty, blood and mild gore, i think?? well roger goes off to kill some lizards and bugs so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckystrike/pseuds/jack%20merridontme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little insight won't make this right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Ends Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> My secret santa gift for tumblr user grapejellyandpurplepants. Special thanks to rogeraptor for helping me out when Roger and Simon refused to cooperate in this fic.

{ _the walls start breathing  
my mind's unweaving  
maybe it's best you leave me alone}_

\---

He's fairly certain that they aren't going to get rescued anytime soon—not with the way they've been carrying on. 

_("I've been watching the sea," Roger says gravely, looking round at the equally sombre faces of the other boys. "There hasn't been the trace of a ship. Perhaps we'll never be rescued." The conch feels strangely delicate in his hands, as fragile as the faint, dying ember of hope in his chest._

_Almost immediately, Ralph takes the shell back, and despite his intent convictions of rescue, Roger can't quite share his belief._

_It's hard to think of safety when he's staring at the fire, wondering if he'd catch a glimpse of a boy with a mark on his face amidst the bright, roaring flames hungrily devouring the forest.)_

He figures that pining for a ship that may or may arrive isn't the best way to go about living, however "temporarily", on the island. (After all, disappointment wears awfully thin on one's resolve to maintain even a sliver of optimism.) 

So instead of watching the fire, Roger finds himself squishing lizards beneath his foot. It isn't productive in the least, but it keeps the boredom _(the void in his mind, the blank spaces where an apathetic numbness starts to settle in)_ at bay, at least for a bit. The wily little buggers are slippery ones—at some point, he wishes he had some sort of sharp weapon to stab them with—but the flickers of satisfaction he gets when he feels the slickness of blood and guts under his feet nearly make up for it. 

He also catches butterflies for the same reason: to feel that same rush of power, of doing something simply because he _could._

Currently, he holds one of the colorful insects in his hand. Weak and helpless, it twitches in his grasp, struggling before ultimately getting crushed in his newly clenched fist. With cold, unfeeling eyes, Roger watches the butterfly flutter to the ground in a crumpled heap, remnants of its multicolored body slipping through his fingers like sand and brushing against an equally crushed cadaver of its brethren upon landing. 

Ignoring the carnage, Roger gives his surrounds a cursory glance for more potential victims. _(The crux of it is undeniable: his urges cannot be satiated.)_

The last thing he expects is for someone to come through the dense foliage, but Simon has never met his expectations. 

Curious and quizzical, the seemingly frail boy blinks up at Roger with wide eyes before roving his gaze over the immediate area. Something akin to sadness passes over Simon's face as he spots the multitudes of lizard caresses and dead butterfly bodies. Gingerly, he briefly kneels down to cup one of Roger's latest victim in his hands. 

When Simon stands and lifts his head, Roger waits to see that guarded, ( ~~ _fearful_~~ ) apprehensive look enter his eyes. Instead, something that seems alarmingly like pity—and of all things, is that a hint of _intrigue?_ —reflects in his bright eyes. 

"Roger," he starts in a soft, steady voice that Roger can hear all too clearly, and he dimly remembers another time, another place where Robert (or perhaps it was Maurice?) had once stepped on a cockroach by accident in the school courtyard. Simon had cradled the poor creature, much like he was doing now, and gently yet sternly reprimanded the other boy, telling him that he should be more careful and that all life needed to be respected. 

Though he isn't in uniform, Roger wonders if Simon would repeat such a speech here, in a place without rules or regulations, where there's nothing holding them back from doing as they please. 

Silence stretches between them as Simon struggles to find the right words to say, and it isn't the typical companionable quiet they often find themselves sharing. The air seems charged and thick was possibilities, and for some reason, Roger finds himself raising an eyebrow and pondering on Simon's possible course of action. Would he reiterate his little soliloquy or would he declare himself tired of Roger's bullshit once and for all? Then again, it was very likely that he'd simply faint, and Roger would never know what Simon was thinking. (Not that he ever does; the boy's rather... _enigmatic._ ) 

The conch suddenly sounds in the distance, but Roger thinks it couldn't have been less farther five feet away. 

Simon jumps, visibly startled, though his surprised expression melts away when he mouths a revered, "Ralph" with shining eyes. Still carrying the butterfly's corpse, he shuffles his feet and turns toward the general direction of the beach. Whatever he was going to say to Roger seems to have slipped from his curious mind. 

"Tch, Ralph," Roger scoffs in a low tone, crossing his arms. He ignores the sudden, white-hot spike of anger unfurling in his chest. 

Simon pauses, probing gaze alighting on Roger's sullen, withdrawn form. "Pardon? You were saying something?" 

Too irked to actually respond, Roger promptly turns his back to Simon and flicked the grime from his hands. A dark scowl, unseen to Simon, mars Roger's usually expressionless face as he sulks off to find something else to ~~_(hurt)_~~ do. A sinking sensation, as though lead is settling in his stomach, is starting to creep up on him, but Roger brushes it off as the uncomfortable feeling that comes with stepping on twigs and lizard corpses with bare feet. 

As he walks past the beach where some of the boys have gathered, Roger thinks that perhaps he'll ask Simon what he was going to say—sometime when Ralph isn't around and he isn't busy torturing animals—just for the hell of it. 

\---

(Needless to say, he never does get the chance to ask Simon.) 

\---

The beginning of the end starts when a littlun starts shrieking, "Beastie!"at the top of his lungs. The hunters' hands fly to their spears, and though Jack initially leads them into the fray, several boys overtake him and descend upon the Beast, howling and screaming like a pack of rabid wolves. 

Roger himself gets there a touch later than he'd like, but he easily makes up for it by slipping through the cracks in the crowd (he goes under _way_ too many boys' legs than he would prefer), and repeatedly attacking the monster with lightning-quick strikes. Something eerily suspicious to the start of a laugh bubbles in his throat, but Roger barely notices; he's far too busy concentrating on maiming the Beast, on seeing the tip of his spear turn red. 

If Roger were to be honest with himself, he'd question how easily they overpowered the supposedly fearsome entity. Granted, he never actually _sees_ the damn thing; a shadowy wraith in the midst of gyrating bodies is all he registers in his field of vision. He could be having a go at a littlun or another choirboy, for all he ~~_(cared)_~~ knew. 

Either way, the Beast would die tonight (and perhaps the littluns would stop shrieking in their sleep for once, but that's just be wishful thinking). Or rather, it _is_ currently dying, but that isn't Roger's main focus; all he knows is that at there is nothing better than this moment, the feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stabs at the creature. (He never knew that the feeling of being alive could be so _addictive_.) 

Amidst the blood roaring in his ears and the cacophony of screeches the other boys are making, Roger swears he hears something about a man on a hill. Perplexed, he slows to a halt, poised arm drooping gradually as he tries to listen for that sound. 

Unfortunately, this momentary pause is all it takes for him to be pushed out of the circle of chanting children. There's a rough shove at his side, and the world spins in a blur of brown, black and red before exploding in a burst of white light in his temples when his head collides with the ground. Despite the faint, ringing noise in his left ear and the spots that swim before his eyes, Roger can tell something has gone terribly wrong by the way someone takes in a horrified gasp followed by what sounds like Bill muttering a stream of curses and "oh my god"s. A flurry of fleeing feet pass by, and as much as he'd like to get up and avoid the possible stampede, he could only remain on the ground in his disoriented state. 

By the time Roger's sensory impairments have more or less receded, Jack Merridew's voice sounds a million years away and the throng of children have already disappeared; the only trace of their presence is a small, misshapen figure on the ground. The... _Thing_ lies a few feet away, and Roger approaches it slowly, taking care to grab a fallen spear on the way. 

As he nears it, Roger's thankful that, save for a few foot-shaped imprints on his arms, he wasn't trampled on too horribly. Honestly, he doesn't need to add that on his list of misfortunes in life; the night had already taken a rather sour turn, and if he doesn't get a chance to at least get a glimpse of the Beast they killed, he swears to God— 

The sight that greets him causes him to jerk to a halt. 

There Simon lay, limbs awkwardly akimbo and obviously broken, streaked with carmine. Weak and helpless, he twitches, a short-lived spasm that signals that a tiny shred of life is left in his battered body. His blank, dull eyes meet Roger's, and his lips part, though no sound comes out. 

An icy, numbness is spreading throughout Roger's body, and for some reason, he's finding it difficult to swallow by the second. The silence suddenly sounds deafening as he forces his legs to move, dammit, just _move_ , until he's right upon Simon. Roger stares down at him, dark eyes flickering in the moonlight, knuckles white from his grip on the stick. 

In a swift, single movement, he plunges the spear straight into Simon's chest, ignoring the blood splattering his hands, the sudden, jolt Simon's body makes as life finally leaves it, and the unwarranted pang of indescribable emotion that resonates deeply in his chest. 

_(Is this what pain feels like?)_

\---

{ _a weight is lifted  
on this evening  
i give the final blow_ }


End file.
